"Oh my god," Maria groaned, as she rolled over into the sand from the blanket.

Mark felt rather fine in comparison to some of the others pulling themselves awake; they'd made sure they weren't where the tide would come in and wash over them in the course of sleeping on the beach, but otherwise, they looked like a pretty sorry lot. It wasn't intended that everyone just plotz out in the sand for an entire night after drinking way too much, but it's how it worked. 

The aftermath wasn't a pretty sight, but some held their liquor better than others, and Mark was one of those that seemed to be fundamentally alright, which meant he was one of the people helping others get up and find them ways home -- cabs had to be called, for example.

Maria grumbled about having to do some sort of assignment for next week, and Mark knew that he was pretty much on his own for the rest of the day, which suited him just fine. While he looked as sandy, worn down and partied out as the others, and he'd been partying the night before last as well, he felt fairly upbeat -- after all, his life was in order. The little things were, at least, not so much an annoyance now that he was moving forward with things in life. 

Others squinted at the early-morning sunlight as they shambled over the dunes, drawing the stern-mouthed disapproval of joggers in spandex, buttpacks and sunglasses with wrap-around elastic bands; they were in varying stages of undress and looked like extras from a zombie movie. The waves crashed in behind them as they packed what few possessions needed it and got off the beach before a citizen from the spandex brigade could call the police on them-- phones were out, apps were opened and locations given. While it was a little early for cabbies, it was also a little early for people to be calling cabs, which meant the cabs showed up after about thirty minutes, which gave everyone time to bum money from each other and otherwise figure out how to pay these guys and get home. 

Mark, thankfully, just had to drive Maria to her place, shared with other girls, near UCLA, in his beaten up Honda accord, which was almost a decade old and definitely not a slick ride, but had gas and kept running. She was pretty miserable looking from the amount of alcohol consumed, but she managed to stagger into her apartment. Once that was taken care of, it was a drive back to his own apartment with a lot of money in his bank account and not much to do on a Sunday morning...and a braided wristband, which gave him an idea. 

Jules was going to get a gift in return, though it wasn't necessarily the same sort of gift that she'd gotten him. He managed to get through the door with a wave to Julie, who looked like she was weathering the after-effects decently enough. He told her, "Might wanna coffee up, I know what we're doing today," he told her with a mischevious grin -- no Maria in tow -- "but just make sure to wear something with no sleeves, but keep it totally casual, because it's just me, okay?" 

That was an unusual enough request in the scheme of things, especially with Bryce practically dressing the woman, but Mark felt like he had to definitely explain the dress code without giving anything away. Before the questions could come, he was through the door and into his bedroom, already peeling off the sodden, sandy clothes that he'd worn the past night, which were thrown into a bin that seemed to be overflowing with clothing crying out to be washed. He hopped into the shower, cranking the dial to get the water good and hot, scrubbing himself with a fairly rough sort of sponge that made the skin feel like it was getting a degree of treatment. Once out, he picked a new pair of jeans and t-shirt to replace the old jeans and t-shirt from an overstuffed closet full of jeans and t-shirts. Meet the new, same as the old. By the time he got out, he felt a lot fresher, and then it was time to roll.

Even though Julie wanted to ask him where they were going, all he'd tell her is, "Sunset."

Finally, they pulled into a parking lot and strolled up to a place that had a sign that said, "The New West Tattoo Company" and he ushered her in. The interior was off-white walls covered in artwork and the people that'd gotten it done there; notable celebrities and non-entities, rock stars and actors. The place had couches and coffee tables with people occupying them and what looked like a row of barber's chairs and barber's stations, but with inks and needles, the tools of the trade. The place had huge windows in the front that let in the sunlight, and rafters overhead that gave it a wide-open, high-ceilinged look. There was music piped in over a very expensive speaker system, and there was a very hot, but very tattooed, woman playing the receptionist role.

"You're getting one with me," he told her. It was all moving fast because he knew if he gave her a moment to think about it, she'd start to balk, "Pick one and get it where you want, I'm covering."

Hopefully, they'd be in the chair with the needle buzzing before her anxieties caught up with her. So went the plan, anyway.